


Alarming, Charming

by ellipsometry



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Black Eagles Route, Foot Fetish, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, Pining, Sauna, Wet & Messy, thigh fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25322689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsometry/pseuds/ellipsometry
Summary: “Hubie, you wound me.  Here I thought you were becoming fond of me.”“There would be no point in become fond of you, Gautier.”  And that’s—not exactly what Sylvain was expecting.  “You obscure a great many skills, but one that is plain to see is your ability to push others away.”“I—” Sylvain swallows, trying to catch Hubert’s eyes.  No luck.  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to flirt with me.”Or, Sylvain beats Hubert at chess once, and it all goes downhill from there.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 10
Kudos: 166





	Alarming, Charming

**Author's Note:**

> THANK U to [sylvgautier](http://twitter.com/sylvgautier) who won my twitter raffle and gave me such a fun pairing to work with~~  
> find me on horny twitter [@ellipsotiddy](http://twitter.com/ellipsotiddy)

Just once, Sylvain beats Hubert at a game of chess. And it all goes downhill from there.

“Your act could use more work,” Hubert says, by way of congratulations. “I am not yet convinced of your uselessness.”And that might be the nicest thing Sylvain’s heard Hubert say to anyone aside from Lady Edelgard and maybe Ferdinand. He should be pleased, right?

Except—

_Gautier, anything to add? Gautier, take your unit to lead the left flank. Gautier, your presence has been requested by Her Majesty—_ who know one successful chess match could come with so many additional responsibilities? Sylvain dials up the white noise in his brain and starts hiding out whenever he senses that familiar black specter looming around the corner. Congeniality with one of the most infamous figures in Adrestia is not what he was prepared for when he switched to the Black Eagles class, when he trotted up to that familiar monastery after five seemingly endless years.

(Not that he could have expected any of this.)

This time, Hubert finds Sylvain in the sauna, already pleasantly weightless. “You are unbelievable.”

“Yeah?” Sylvain turns his head toward the door separating the baths from the sauna, slow and easy grin sloping across his face. Hubert looks ridiculous through the steam, still dressed in his all-black get-up. “I thought this would be the first place you’d look for me.”

“I said unbelievable, not unpredictable.” Hubert sneers. But Sylvain doesn’t miss the slow up-down he gives Sylvain’s mostly-naked body, the way his eyes linger first at the small towel covering his lap, second on the gold piercings glinting at his chest. “Get up, you’re needed.”

Sylvain snorts, “Doubt it. But I could use some company if you want to divest of those fine, fine vestments.”

To his shock, but maybe not his great surprise, Hubert acquiesces. He takes his clothes off carefully, folding each into their proper shape, and grabs a towel from the baths to cover his modesty. They’ve never actually spent any time in the sauna together – Hubert never even indulges, if all his deferred invitations from Caspar are any indication. It’s stark how pale he is, but Sylvain is taken for a moment by the firm stretch of his shoulders, the way his lanky limbs flex and relax under the soothing steam. He had kind of expected Hubert to look like a drowned Abyssian rat, but he cuts a striking figure underneath all that black.

“Hm, not bad,” Sylvain huffs out, lounging further against the fragrant wood. Hubert sits beside him, stiff as anything. “You look much better out of all those stuffy clothes.”

Hubert’s lip curls. “Must you always be so disgusting?”

“Disgusting?” Sylvain presses a hand to his chest. “Hubie, you wound me. Here I thought you were becoming fond of me.”

“There would be no point in become _fond_ of you, Gautier.” And that’s—not exactly what Sylvain was expecting. “You obscure a great many skills, but one that is plain to see is your ability to push others away.”

“I—” Sylvain swallows, trying to catch Hubert’s eyes. No luck. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to flirt with me.”

Hubert’s nostrils flare, just a bit. Just enough that Sylvain is realizing for the first time how familiar he’s become with all of Hubert’s little tics, his tells, all meticulously memorized across many chess matches. He’s _embarrassed_. “I simply speak from experience. A small similarity we share.”

“Of course,” Sylvain nods, knocking his knee against Hubert’s, relishing the tiny startled noise the other man makes. “What a pair we make, huh?”

Hubert, for once, doesn’t argue. “Quite.”

+

Sylvain doesn’t mean for it to become a regular occurrence, but he finds himself meeting Hubert at the sauna week after week. It’s patently ridiculous: Both of them are horrible with the heat, and can’t last very long without having to douse themselves with the cold water from the tap kept to the side, installed by the Professor after one too many instances of overheating. Nevertheless, Sylvain relishes the rare opportunity to piece apart the strange things Hubert says, the little admonitions and arguments. What all that supposed to demonstrate, apparently, is that, in his way he’s come to respect Sylvain.

“I’m pleased you and Hubert are getting along,” Edelgard says after a war council meeting where Sylvain and Hubert exchange terse arguments for an hour before exploding into a screaming match. Caspar has to physically hold Sylvain back from launching himself across the table. 

They train together only once, after which Sylvain has to have a part of his shoulder basically reconstructed by Linhardt, Hubert’s dark magic digging deep in his shoulder, white bone exposed.

“You pretend like I came out unscathed,” Hubert says that night when they meet. He unbuttons his coat, careful as always, and reveals the constellation of bruises scattered up and down his chest.

“Whatever,” Sylvain scoffs, but scans the lithe muscle of Hubert’s chest, the small moles that dot his torso. He shucks off his own shirt and presses a fist to his left pec. “Hit me here next time, I’d like a quick and painless death if you don’t mind.”

“Ridiculous,” Hubert’s fingers tense around his robes. “If I wanted to kill you, you’d be dead already.”

“ _Oh_ , Hubie—you know that kind of talk gets me hot and bothered.”

Wrong thing to say, apparently. Or exactly right, depending on how you look at it—Hubert rounds on Sylvain, pushing him back against the wall hard enough the Sylvain’s head makes a satisfying _thud!_ , eyes sparkling with stars. Sylvain groans, losing the grip on his towel, watches it flutter pathetically to the ground.

“I grow tired of your nonsense, Gautier,” Hubert growls, eyes flashing acid green. Not for the first time, Sylvain appreciates what their enemies must see Hubert as – someone inhuman, monstrous, _terrifying_. And he certainly wasn’t lying when he said he could kill Sylvain in an instant.

But this is where Hubert miscalculates: His hand, tensed around the side of Sylvain’s neck, fingertips trembling. The way his breath hitches, tips of his ears going red. And, most telling of all, the brush of a half-hard cock against Sylvain’s thigh. _Goddess, he’s easy_.

“Hubert,” Sylvain says, low and steady like he’s talking to a wild animal. “If you wanted to fuck me, you could’ve just asked.”

For a second, Sylvain thinks those might be the magic words. Hubert’s grip tightens, pressing fingerprint bruises into the soft curve of Sylvain’s neck—

But then, it’s over. Hubert steps away, hands clenching and unclenching in the humid air before he politely re-dresses, and the cold air hits Sylvain in a wave as he leaves.

And, for a while, that’s that.

+

“Mercedes. Have you ever spent time with Hubert?”

“Hm,” Mercedes always looks like she’s a thousand miles away. “A little. It’s kind of funny.”

She doesn’t elaborate. Sylvain leans on his elbow and cocks an eyebrow. “Funny how?”

“Oh!” Mercedes laughs – at her lost train of thought or at what she’s about to say, only the Goddess knows. “Just funny that you’d ask about him. It feels like every time I see him he’s always talking about you.”

“Planning my surreptitious murder?”

It’s hard to hide anything from Mercedes. Sylvain is sure she can see the flip of his stomach, the way his throat tightens. 

She smiles wide enough that her eyes crease shut. “Something like that.”

+

His big mistake, Sylvain decides, was trying to _talk_ to Hubert in the first place.

They don’t plan on it, but Sylvain still finds Hubert at the sauna the next week, already undressed and halfway to beet-red, arms folded up and legs crossed tight like he’s doing his best disappearing act. Sylvain undresses and, in one swift movement, before he can lose his nerve, drops his towel and drapes himself in across Hubert’s lap. 

The other man stares down at him with no surprise, no movement, just the tiniest tic of his eyebrows. “Can I help you, Gautier?”

“Maybe. Been feeling a little pent up lately,” and already the _no talking_ plan is going right out the window. “I was serious, by the way. If you want to fuck me, you can just ask. We could both probably use it.”

Hubert doesn’t bother asking. He lets out a small huff of air before tipping Sylvain’s thigh up with his hand, sending the redhead tumbling to the side, landing not-so-softly against the wood bench. And, once Sylvain is sprawled and disoriented, Hubert grabs his jaw, forcing his mouth open – and kisses him wet and messy, teeth clacking together in a way that would be markedly _unsexy_ if it wasn’t everything Sylvain wanted and more. Sylvain surges up, swiping his tongue against Hubert’s, letting soft whines drip from his lips.

By the time he pulls back, they’re both red-faced and panting from more than just the sauna heat. Sylvain’s towel is lonely and forgotten on the floor. Hubert’s is – mystery of all mysteries – still clinging to his lap, but the shape of his cock, half-hard, is clearly outlined.

“If you’re so _pent up_ ,” Hubert pants out, running a hand up Sylvain’s chest, sweat and water droplets clinging to his hand. “There are places in Abyss that cater to insatiable whores such as yourself.” 

And _fuck_ Sylvain’s head is spinning from the unfamiliar filth coming from Hubert of all people, the way those careful hands are cupping his pecs now, pushing them together until they crease. His eyes are fixed squarely on the glinting jewelry there – a gold bar through each nipple, pierced expertly by an Almyran trader Sylvain met in town. It had felt good to do something reckless, something of worth to no one but himself, something his father would surely hate.

But, looking at the way Hubert’s eyes go dark, chasing the gleam of the piercings in the low light – perhaps there’s another benefit Sylvain hadn’t considered.

“Perhaps that is unfair of me,” Hubert decides, circling Sylvain’s areola, keeping that careful, infuriating distance. “I hear you’ve been useful. Not making any trouble.”

Sylvain hiccups when Hubert’s fingernail digs into his nipple, just shy of the piercing. “Y-You know me. Always on my best behavior.”

“So, you won’t mind being good for me, then.”

_Good, good, good_ – Sylvain blinks back a rush of tears that cling to his eyelashes, and tries not to interrogate too deeply why that one word seems to send want spiraling down his body, coiling dangerously in his gut. He wants to be good; he wants to be useful. He wants that so badly it hurts.

Hubert pulls on Sylvain’s nipple, one sharp, insistent tug. “I’m waiting for an answer, Gautier.”

“Yes, yes— _fuck_ , yes—” the words tumble out of Sylvain’s mouth, suddenly flooded with saliva as his back arches, pushing himself into Hubert’s touch. Hubert’s fingertips are still cold, somehow, despite the heat of the sauna; the dissonance is making Sylvain dizzy, and he groans from deep in his chest, already going halfway limp from pleasure.

The thin line of Hubert’s mouth curls into a shadow of a smile. “You’re so very easy, Sylvain,” he all but purrs, and that might be the first time he’s called Sylvain by his given name in all the time he’s known him. “Tell me, how often do you play with yourself like this?” He pulls on a nipple, twisting it meanly, and is rewarded with a small whimper. “Or do you have a rotation of paramours for that?”

“D-Don’t sound so jealous,” Sylvain pants out through a grin. He hooks a leg around Hubert’s waist, pulling him closer, feeling the proof of Hubert’s arousal hard and slick against his thigh. They’re both sweaty and flushed from more than just the steam, and the slide of skin on skin is scalding, already making Sylvain’s head go fuzzy with want.

“Didn’t I say I was pent up? Saved it all for you.”

Hubert’s face is brilliant red. “So you said.”

They’re doing this all out of order, Sylvain thinks, as Hubert leans down, captures his mouth in another messy, clumsy kiss. This is supposed to come first, come chastely. But neither of them has much of a penchant for the natural order of things, do they?

Huber bites down on the swell of Sylvain’s bottom lip, bruising, breathes into his open mouth. He tastes like coffee and metal, some strange cocktail that has Sylvain mouthing back desperately, hungry for that bit of human connection. Hubert, on the other hand, doesn’t seem interested in the dance of it – he hooks a thumb in Sylvain’s mouth, pulling his mouth open, and licks at his open mouth, nearly gagging Sylvain on his tongue. It’s all Sylvain can do to keep his mouth dropped open, chest heaving as he takes whatever Hubert wants to give him.

“Did you want something?” Hubert pulls back after Sylvain makes a messy, lewd noise around his fingers. The answer, it seems, is for Hubert to prod further into his mouth, dipping two fingers in, gently fucking Sylvain’s mouth, small gagged noises dripping along with the drool that catches in the corners of his mouth.

“You’re much more likeable like this, Gautier.” Hubert’s free hand taps down Sylvain’s chest, his abs clenching under a feather-light touch, and finally – _Goddess, finally_ – those slender fingers circle Sylvain’s cock, holding tight at the base.

“H-Hubert, comf—” Sylvain is drooling, slurring his words around long, thin fingers. Small mercy that it is, Hubert pulls his fingers free, smearing the drool across Sylvain’s cheeks, smacking his cheek lightly, making a further mess of him. “W-Was that so hard, now?”

Hubert cocks an eyebrow, hand slicking up and down Sylvain’s shaft, torturously slow. “Was _what_ so hard?”

“To admit you like me.” Sylvain attempts a cocksure smile, but he’s going lightheaded from the steam and the way Hubert’s thumb smears across the head of his cock, playing with the wetness there.

So cruel before, Hubert’s face softens a bit. Wordlessly, he releases Sylvain’s cock, leaning back to grab one of the small wooden buckets, filling it with the tap of cool water kept to the side of the sauna. He turns back and, just as unceremoniously, dumps it over Sylvain’s head.

“What the— _Hubert,_ the _fuck!”_ Sylvain’s teeth shatter, body spasming under the shock of cold water.

“Quiet,” Hubert hisses, pushing at Sylvain’s shoulders. He’s so off-kilter, he goes easily, falling further back against the soft wood of the bench, one leg hiked up, the other sprawled to the side, dangling. “It wouldn’t do for you to pass out on me.”

“Got such grand plans for me, Vestra?”

If Hubert answers, Sylvain doesn’t catch it – he mumbles something, perhaps, that gets lost in the hiss of steam and the creak of the old stones of the monastery. In lieu of that answer, he strokes a hand up and down Sylvain’s leg, fingers catching in the damp, downy hair. Sylvain sighs, tipping his head back against the bench, and lets Hubert maneuver him, to splay his legs wide, hike one up to hook his knee over Hubert’s shoulder. It feels good to be pliant in someone else’s hands, to be someone else’s to command.

He feels it before he sees it – Hubert kissing at the curve of his ankle bone, then the instep of his foot. He can’t help the low gasp he lets out, and as he pushes himself up on his elbows, Sylvain’s cock drips against the jut of his hip as he catches sight of Hubert kissing a trail down the top of Sylvain’s foot.

To have the second-most powerful man in Adrestia at his feet – no, not just at his feet, but worshipping them, licking the sweat from his soles, gazing at him with that darkened gaze – it’s all a bit more than Sylvain can comfortably wrap his mind around.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, trembling as Hubert lifts his other leg, hooking his arm under the knee. “Fuck, just fuck me, _please_ —” Sylvain’s voice cracks, and Hubert laughs at him, low and dangerous.

“Another time,” Hubert says, and he sounds a bit mournful about it. All Sylvain can hear is the promise of another meeting, and his stomach jumps into his throat. “You’re much too needy, too impatient.”

He tugs firm at Sylvain’s legs, squeezing those thick, muscled thighs together. Sylvain groans at the implication of it – training calvary was good for something after all, he thinks. A nice, plush pillow for Hubert to fuck into, as sweet and tight as any hole. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay—” Sylvain stutters, tongue growing thick in his mouth. _Goddess_ , he wants to come, but he keeps his hands firm against the warm, wet wood. Somehow, he knows better than to touch himself without Hubert’s blessing.

“Very good,” Hubert grunts, eye catching the way Sylvain’s fingers are twitching, fingers scrambling against the bench. “You’ll earn my cock in you yet, Gautier.”

A soft wail rips from Sylvain’s throat at his words – and, before he has time to think, Hubert’s cock is pushing through the crease of his thighs, slick and messy. Sylvain looks down at his own body through the steam and haze of tears, and what he sees is almost unrecognizable – skin flushed red, splotchy blushes that make the freckles that dot his body stand out; sweaty and desperate, legs clamped tight; and the head of Hubert’s cock, pink and dripping, peeking through. He slides against Sylvain’s cock, that sweet grind, and both men moan.

“S-Stay still,” Hubert grunts out, and it’s only then that Sylvain even realizes how he’s been squirming, hips hitching up as Hubert thrusts slow and steady, hips bumping against Sylvain’s ass. But Sylvain’s not sure he could keep himself still with the help of even the Goddess herself. He busies himself with his nipples instead, running shaking hands across the piercings, teasing himself until he can feel his cock drip.

“Next time,” Hubert growls, thrusts picking up, wet slaps that echo around the sauna. “I’ll fuck your needy ass, just like you want.” Sylvain’s eyes roll back, the smallest whine ripping from his throat. And now he can hear the smile in Hubert’s voice, the raw edge of his want. “ _Ah_ , you can be divine, Sylvain. So good for me.”

_Good._ There’s that word again, rattling around Sylvain’s skull. He could come just from that – but Hubert takes mercy on him, pulling back to bump the wet head of his cock against Sylvain’s taint; then squeeze it between Sylvain’s ass, kissing the tight pucker of his hole – a dirty promise.

“A-Ah, _fuck,_ Hub—” Sylvain’s fingers work hot and fast over his nipples, and he comes with a cut-off shout, back going taut as a bowstring, cock twitching as he paints his stomach white.

“Lovely,” Hubert whispers. Or maybe that’s just Sylvain’s fever dream, what he wants to hear. Why would Hubert of all people want him like this, find _him_ so intriguing – the post-orgasm haze is already settling over Sylvain’s brain as Hubert strokes a hand over his stomach, smearing his spend into his skin. A few wet, quick strokes of his own cock and Hubert follows Sylvain with a keen, slapping his cock against Sylvain’s thigh, coming against the smooth, wet skin. Sylvain can feel it drip down, cooling against his ass.

If it wouldn’t lead to instant heat stroke, Sylvain would fall asleep right then and there – fucked-out and sated, mind blessedly empty. Hubert looks woozy as well, and stumbles over Sylvain’s chest, resting his head there.

“I do, you know.”

It takes Sylvain at least a minute to force his mouth to work. “Do… what?”

He can feel Hubert’s jaw clenching. “Like you,” he spits out, like it’s a death sentence. Like it’s a curse he’s been afflicted with. Sylvain wouldn’t necessarily argue with him.

“Nice,” Sylvain lets out a laugh – or, well, it’s more like a wheeze, between the way he’s still catching his breath and the way Hubert is laying across his chest, surprisingly heavy.

“Nice,” Hubert deadpans.

“Yeah,” Sylvain is unsuccessful at biting down the grin that spreads across his face. “Would’ve sucked if it was only me.”

If Hubert understands – and Sylvain suspects he does, if the way he exhales and seems to melt against Sylvain’s body is any indication – he doesn’t respond. But even wordy bastards like them need a break, Sylvain decides.

They (eventually) extricate themselves, untangle their limbs, clean themselves up in the bath house. Miracle of miracles, there are no visible marks on either of them to speak of, but Sylvain hisses as his shirt brushes his nipples. Now, knowing the surprise underneath, Hubert finds his eyes drawn to the span of Sylvain’s chest. 

(This will prove to be a problem during meetings, the distraction of each other so close, the strange energy crackling between them that even the most oblivious of their rank will notice. But this is a problem for another time.)

Out in the cool air, under the now-darkened skies, Sylvain takes a chance, kisses Hubert’s temple quick. “Same time next week?”

Hubert’s hands clench at his sides, and he takes a long pause. Long enough that Sylvain thinks he might have just accidentally ruined the whole thing. At least until Hubert finally smiles, something small and rare.

“How about tomorrow?”


End file.
